


Everything Reminds Me of Things I Thought I Shouldn't Have to See Again

by stark2ash



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Flashbacks, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony deserves the world, flashbacks to torture, the avengers are a team but they're also a family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stark2ash/pseuds/stark2ash
Summary: Tony wakes up to a bad day. It gets worse. Shocker, right?





	1. Chapter 1

Tony wakes in a desperate attempt to get air, gasping and hands on his chest. He can’t see, and for a second he thinks he’s back there, a blindfold over his eyes and a tub of water in front of him, a car battery keeping him from what can only be a painful death.

And then Friday raises the lights and he’s in his bed with a super soldier fast asleep next to him. The New York skyline is visible from the wall of windows, and Friday’s projection on the wall tells him it’s 4:23 in the morning. Steve was going to get up for his morning run in a few minutes anyway, and there was no point in pretending he was still sleeping. So he gets up, his breathing still fast and uneven, throws on a clean t-shirt and sweats, and makes his way to his workshop. Steve waking up alone is better than Steve waking up to him like this. 

He stretches his neck as he’s walking over to his desk, and freezes when a sharp pain stabs through his sternum. “Friday?” he says, trying not to panic but grabbing the back of his chair tighter than he would’ve under normal circumstances.

“The arc reactor is functioning correctly. Nothing seems to be out of order with the device itself.” He breathes a sigh of relief, but the pain is still there. “It seems that there is a slight irritation around the device, caused by the cold you developed two days ago.”

Tony drops into the chair, wincing as the sudden impact jolts his chest again. He’d been careful. He’d worn the coat and the gloves and even the stupid hat that Peter forced on him (“come on Mister Stark, show some team spirit!”) at the football game. He’d stood against Steve and stolen his warmth for the entire game, and his stupid human body still had to rebel and get him sick. The memory helps him breathe a little easier, and he finally notices that his nose is still stuffy, and makes a mental note to get some cold medicine. Then he pulls up some blueprints that Fury wanted days ago, because if he was going to be up at 4 fucking 30, he was going to get something done.

Steve finds him in the same place three hours later. Tony’s moved on from Fury’s project and is working making Natasha better knives. The old ones were great, but he’d noticed that her grip slipped at times when she whipped them out, and with their luck, that would be a life or death moment one day. He’s so engrossed that when Steve taps him on the shoulder, he pushes his chair back and turns to face him, knife in hand, and eyes dark and calculating. 

Steve puts his hands up in surrender, and Tony closes his eyes, re-calibrating, and throws the knife down on the workbench behind him. “Jesus, Steve, you freaked me out. Wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.”

“It’s 8 in the morning.” Steve raises his eyebrows, but Tony just shrugs. “I came down here to tell you that breakfast is ready. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

“Okay, give me like five minutes to wrap this up and then I’ll meet you up there.”

He nods at Tony’s statement, pleased that he would actually be consuming food today, and heads back upstairs.

Tony settles back into his chair, heart fluttering beneath his hand. Obie’s face flashes briefly in front of his closed eyelids, and they snap back open as his sternum gives another irritated flash of pain. It was going to be a bad day. He hadn’t had one of those in years, he’d always been careful to avoid the triggers, and before then, avoid people once he knew what was going on. But if he locked himself in his workshop, Steve would just worry himself to death (with good reason), which didn’t seem like an option at the present moment. Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tony emerged from the workshop (only four minutes late Steve, calm your gorgeous man tits), Natasha and Coulson were sitting at the breakfast bar, Clint was perched on the arm of the sofa, and Bruce was washing dishes. Steve handed him a plate, full of eggs and something else that looked healthy, and he took the seat across from Coulson. 

“Team sparring at 2?” Natasha looked over her shoulder at Clint, who nodded in agreement, and then backflipped off his perch onto the floor. 

Peter would have called it extra, but Tony just called it obnoxious. 

“I’ll be there.” Steve took the seat next to Tony, nudging his plate closer to him. “You have to eat, or Natasha’s going to kick your ass this afternoon.”

Clint snorted. “She’s going to kick his ass anyway. Remember what happened last time?”

Couldn’t get through a single meal without bringing up how she’d won hands down. Of course, it was friendly fighting, and he’d told her that her new widow bites were powerful, but that didn’t stop her from using them on his suit. There really was nothing like trying to move in a suit that was suddenly dead. Rather than replacing all the wiring, he retired it. RIP Mark 58. 

“All the guy wants is to eat his eggs in peace, let him have that.” Bruce was still washing the dishes, but Tony nodded at him appreciatively. 

Clint added his dish to the pile, walking towards the door. “Fine, but if he thinks he can get away with being tired because he spent all night fucking Steve, he should reconsider.”

Steve choked on his coffee, spilling it on the counter, and Tony coughed at Clint’s brashness, momentarily forgetting about his whole cold situation. Coughing, it seemed, was the wrong move.

He clutched at his chest, all thoughts of Clint’s comment gone. His fucking sternum felt like it was shattering, breathe breathe cough breathe okay don’t cough that’s not an option anymore why the hell didn’t he take the cold medicine an hour ago like he was supposed to? And Steve’s hand is on his back and everything is getting better and then Bruce drops a coffee cup into the sink full of water in his hurry to come help and it splashes and suddenly his face is wet and he opens his eyes to a tub full of ice water and unfriendly hands on his shoulders.

It’s just like he remembers it, but this time as he struggles the car battery sparks and he falls over and there are hands all over him, holding him down as he fights for a way out. He hears his name but if they think they’re getting weapons from him, they’re full of shit and he tells them so, only to be surprised by hands holding his legs and arms down and more shouting. Someone touches the bandages on his chest and he surprises himself with the sharp punch he throws before collapsing back on the ground, aching and holding his breath because they aren’t going to put him back in the water, he won’t let them. 

“Tony you have to breathe.” Someone is trying to force his mouth open, but he clamps his jaw shut and doesn’t move. If he passes out, they can’t do anything else to him, right? Wrong, his mind helpfully supplies, but being unconscious is better than being awake, so he holds his breath until the voices fade out and the stars beneath his eyelids disappear.

He wakes up on the kitchen floor, with Natasha leaning over him. “Okay, he’s conscious again.” She eyes him warily, and he can see from the way she holds herself that she’s ready to hold him down again if necessary. He runs through his memory, and knows exactly what has happened, and groans. “Do you know where you are?”

Tony sneezes in response. “Ow, fuck.”

She shrugs. “Good enough for me”. She stands, and offers him a hand, but he waves her off in favor of laying on the cool surface for a few more seconds. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That gets him up quickly, gripping the kitchen stool for support (his own is still on the floor from when he fell off it), and ignoring the burn of his chest from the oxygen debt. “I can handle myself, Natashalie.” He tries to smile with the nickname, but it comes out as more of a grimace and he abandons the effort. He scans the room, seeing Steve standing worriedly in the corner, but the other three are nowhere to be found. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an important production in my workshop, and I need to go check on it immediately.” He pushes past both of them into the elevator, and as the doors close, he can see the disappointed look on Natasha’s face. He doesn’t even want to think about the worry and confusion on Steve’s, so he holds the “close door” button as hard as he can and waits until he’s out of their sight to slide to the floor.


End file.
